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EASTER IN MOSCOW      

                                                           

 Michael’s  Long  Weekend    

in  Russia  in  1990      

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 1990    It’s  polite   to   take  a  bottle  of  wine  when  visiting  a   friend’s  home,  but   that  depends  on  whose  home  you  are  visiting  and  where  it’s  located.    I’m  about  to  depart  to  a  truly  foreign  land.  I  elect  to   skip   the   bottle   of   wine   routine,   and   skip   out   of   my   London   office   in   the   middle   of   the  afternoon  and  go  buy  celery,  tomatoes,  cheese,  bread  and  six  big  red  shiny  apples  for  my  host.      I  place  the  apples  in  easy  view  on  the  very  top  of  a  Harrods  shopping  bag.  I  figure  I  may  need  to   share   some   of   this   priceless   contraband   that   I’m   carting   to   my   deprived   host   Jim   K   in  Moscow  to  sweeten  the  USSR  Customs  officer  on  arrival  to  get  it  all  through.      The  six  shiny  red  ones  were  never  in  danger  for  a  moment.    I  was  the  first  through  a  dimly  lit  Customs  channel  and   the  officer  was  more  concerned  with  my   interrupting  his   ‘smoko’   than  the  fresh  foodstuffs  lurking  in  my  luggage.  Jim  and  his  driver,  Slava,  meet  me  and  drive  me  to  the  city.  We  pass  ominous  grey  apartment  blocks,  one  upon  another,   and  every   second   light  pole  along   the  highway   leans  at  an  angle,   seemingly  held  up  only  by  electricity  wires   strung  between  them.    Hidden  Comforts  amidst  Dilapidation    Jim  lives  in  one  of  the  ‘Seven  Sisters’,  the  Stalinist  wedding  cake-­‐style  buildings  that  circle  the  Kremlin.    The  exteriors  all  look  so  imposing,  but  as  I  enter  through  old,  six-­‐inch  thick  doors,  my  nostrils  are  assailed  by  a  smell  like  that  of  a  rubbish  dump.  Stepping  over  cardboard  boxes  and  warily   climbing   up   on   broken  marble   stair-­‐treads,   I   pass   letterboxes   (many   blackened   from  many  fires)  and  find  myself  in  an  elevator  lobby.    Here,  wires  trail  from  electric  boxes  high  up  the  walls  and  I  ask  myself  whether  I  should  be  trusting  the  elevator  or  not.    

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Once   inside,   the   apartment   itself   is  magnificent.     It  has  been   totally  refitted  by  a  contractor   brought   in   from   Austria,   right  down  to  the  kitchen  sink.    The  other  residents  of   the   building   are   all   aged   ‘Heroes   of   the  Great  War’.    Jim  is  the  envy  of  every  American  wife   with   this   palatial   apartment.     He  inherited   it   from   an   earlier   Amex   manager  who  had  five  children  and  couldn’t  be  housed  in  the  normal  cramped  quarters  set  aside  for  most  foreigners.    The  KGB  is  Listening    No  sooner  than  showing  me  to  my  room,  Jim  with   finger   to   his   lips,   hushes   me,   and  pointing  to  the  ceiling  light  he  waves  me  into  what   is   his   study,   closes   the   window,   and  turns  on  the  stereo,  up  loud.  Then  he  explains  that   the   KGB   bugs   the   apartment.   In   fact   he  his  sure  his  maid  is  one  of  them.  But,  in  these  controlled   states,   all   staff   has   to   come  through   a   government   agency.   Slava   the  driver   is   also   one   of   them.   All   expats   suffer  this  invasion  of  privacy,  but  on  meeting  Jim’s  small   circle   of   friends   at   a   private   dinner  party   that   evening,   I   can   see   that   it   hasn’t  taken   away   their   ability   to   laugh   and   have  fun.    The   public   buildings   still   show   signs   of   a  ‘magnificence   that   was’   prior   to   the  revolution.    The  cost  of  maintenance  for  these  buildings  alone  would  bankrupt  the  State  today.    It  doesn’t  bear  thinking  where  the  money  will  come  from  for  infrastructural  renewal  for  public  services  like  telephone,  roads  and  sewerage.    Jim’s  business  phone  bill  comes  handwritten!    Perestroika  in  the  Vegetable  Market    The  next  morning’s   expedition   to   the   local   produce  market   to  make   ready   for   the   evening’s  entertainment  makes   all   the   subterfuge   and  my   smuggling   of   foodstuffs   from  Harrods   to   be  quite  a   joke.    The  profusion  of  excellent  produce  on  sale  here  would  make  selection  difficult  even  in  London  –  apples  so  red  and  lovingly  shined  by  little  old  ladies  in  white  coats;  tomatoes  so   red   and   powerfully   aromatic   being   touted   by   rows   of   swarthy   Azerbaijanis   who   have  brought  them  to  Moscow  in  suitcases  (on  the  roofs  of  their  cars  or  on  the  train,  I  don’t  know.)  Zucchinis  with  their  yellow  flower  still  intact  indicate  freshness  and  a  much  shorter  journey  to  market  then  the  tomatoes.      And  in  the  next  building  there’s  a  spotlessly  clean,  whitewashed  meat  hall  bustling  with  whole  families   chopping   and   offering   choice   cuts   of   lamb,   pork   and   poultry.   All   are   vying   for   our  custom.    This   is   the  hard  currency  Rouble  market  and  one  of   the   few   local  manifestations  of  perestroika   evident   in  Moscow.     Our   purchases   cost   less   than   in   the  West   but   for   the   local  people  our  evening  meal  costs  more  than  a  month’s  salary.    Their  alternative  is  to  buy  a  bag  of  ‘mystery  meat’  (as  my  friends  call  it)  doled  out  to  long  lines  outside  a  butcher  shop  down  the  street.   Inside   a   local   wine   shop,   the   shelves   are   full.   But   much   to   the   local   wino’s   despair,  there’s  only  bottled  water.    

Jim  in  the  entrance  hall  of  his  apartment  

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Red  Square  and  the  Glittering  Onion  Domes  of  St  Basil’s    We  are  free  to  drive  all  around  Moscow  but  I  seem  to  be  drawn  back  each  day  to  the  Kremlin  and  Red  Square.    St  Basil’s,  with  its  multi-­‐coloured  domes  situated  at  one  end  of  Red  Square  is  spectacular,  but  rivalled  by  a  group  of  churches  within  the  Kremlin  Walls  with  their  glittering  onion  domes.    These  are  even  more  captivating  when  the  sun  comes  out.  I  need  another  roll  of  film  to  catch  the  contrast  against  the  bright  blue  sky.        The   changing   of   the   guard   at   Lenin’s   Tomb   in   Red   Square   takes   place   every   hour.     Three  soldiers  make  their  approach  along  the  Kremlin  Wall  to  the  Tomb  in  exactly  142  goose  steps,  in  time  to  take  over  exactly  as  the  clock  chimes  the  hour.    There  is  something  very  Russian  and  exciting  about  it  and  I  return  to  join  the  crowds  for  a  second  time.    I   visit   the   Diamond  Exhibition   and   The  Armoury   in   the  Kremlin   and   come  away   not   only  marvelling   at   the  grandeur   of   the  Czarist   and   Imperial  lifestyles,   but   also   at  how   some   aspect   of  Christianity   was  indelibly   ingrained   in  what   seemed   to   be  every  second  display.    Icons   and   ‘Gospels’  (as  the  guide  referred  to   the   many  missals)  were   framed   and  encrusted  in  gold  and  precious   stones,  many   the   sizes   of  eggs.    Of  course  there  are   still   some   of   the  famous  Fabergé  eggs,  one   of   which   opened  to   reveal   a   complete  silver   toy   train-­‐set   in  miniature.     A   picture  is   worth   a   thousand  stories   but   in   this  exhibit   it’s   the  coaches   and  costumes  that  tell  all.    Easter   and   the   Re-­‐emergence    of  Faith      I’d   say   that   the   Faith  was   never   been  completely   stamped  out   during   the   long  period   under  Communist  rule  if  my  

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Easter  weekend  experience  is  any  measure.    It’s  touching  to  see  the  old  ladies  in  a  churchyard  in   overcoats   and   headscarves   lined   up   along   long   tables   like   sitting   hens.     They   were  painstakingly  unpacking  their  hand-­‐painted  Easter  eggs  and  lighting  candles  stuck  in  the  top  of  their  homemade  Easter  cakes,  waiting  for  the  priest  to  come  and  bless  them.    He  comes  with  his  brass  handled  pastry  brush  and  pail  of  water,  and  I  cop  a  face-­‐full  as  he  generously  doused  the  faithful  with  a  broad  flick  of  his  wrist.    On   Easter   Sunday   I   arrive   to   find   that   Mass   is   already   over   and   the   same   old   ladies   are  polishing   feverishly   on   stepladders   and   stools.   They   are   on   their   knees   scraping  melted   red  wax  from  thousands  of  candles  that  now  covers  not  only  the  brass  candlesticks  but  the  entire  floor.    White  Easter  lilies  and  pink  carnations,  strung  in  ropes  around  gold  icons  on  the  walls,  are  illuminated  by  huge  chandeliers  –  another  devotional  practice.      At  a  small  stand  in  the  back  of  the  church  I  buy  a  small  icon  for  Clara,  my  devout  Portuguese  cleaning  lady,  and  an  old  Easter  post  card  for  Nonna,  my  Russian  aunt  in  Sydney.    Nonna  has  since  written  asking  me  how  I  came  by  a  post  card  by  the  famous  artist  Bem.    She  says,  “I  have  been  collecting  them  all  my  life.    He  was  always  famous  for  being  able  with  such  ease  to  depict  the  soul  of  the  poor  people”.    On   Monday   morning,   our   Moscow   Office   Manager   of   twenty   years,   Valentina,   brings   me   a  buttered  slice  of  the  rich  Easter  bun  with  my  morning  tea.     I  wonder   if   I  return  in  December  would   I   be   offered   fruitcake   as   a   celebration   of   Christmas?     Old   traditions   die   hard,   even  seventy  years  after  God  was  pushed  aside.    I   return   back   to   London   richer   for   the   experience,   but   glad   that   it   is   Jim   that   endures   this  hardship  posting,  and  not  I.      Michael,  April  1990